Learning to Waltz (28 page)

They headed south again, still trying to outrun Mrs. Moore’s ghost as Grady saw it. He figured they’d stop at St. Ives or Penzance. Both were good places to spend the winter.

Indeed, they visited both towns but neither for very long. Mr. Haverfield seemed incapable of staying still. He had friends in the vicinity and had sometimes stayed in their homes, dined, or hunted with them. This trip he saw none of them.

He was at least talking more, which Grady supposed was progress, though sometimes he sounded more like a madman than a rational being. After stewing for what seemed like hours, he would suddenly start up on something like the scenery, or Cornish history, or that damned King Arthur again. His talk was almost fevered at times, though he seemed intent on Grady’s participation. Like as long as someone was responding, he was having a conversation; otherwise he was just ranting. Then he’d lapse into silence again. Then perhaps he’d recite a few lines of poetry, which maybe related to something he was thinking about but meant nothing to Grady.

Evan was trying, really he was.

Anger had given way to self-pity, which felt more and more like self-loathing the longer he wallowed in the morass. He began forcing himself out of his private parlor in the evenings and into the public room of whatever inn they currently inhabited. He could, and did, drink just as much, but he could fool himself that he was rejoining society. Poor Grady would get a bonus if they ever found their way back to a normal life; Evan did not pay him enough to put up with these megrims.

With a laugh that didn’t ring true, Grady asked if their goal was to see every insignificant fishing village along the coast of Cornwall.

Evan had no goal at all.

Grady diffidently pointed out that it was the middle of March and supposed they would head north soon.

Evan hardly heard him and made no reply.

When they arrived at Plymouth, Grady breathed a sigh of relief. “Good roads north from here. A day or two to rest the horses, and we can be in Whately in good time for Lord Latimer’s wedding.”

But Evan found himself assailed by the thought that
she
had been here, in Plymouth, when she first escaped her home. He did not know precisely when or for how long. But he knew that she had shopped for clothing here, and learned to dance, and attended church and assemblies. He saw a production at the Theatre Royal and thought of her there—it wouldn’t have been the current building, which had been open just a few years, but its predecessor at the far end of George Street. He attended a concert and wondered if she would have enjoyed it. He purchased new gloves and imagined her doing the same.

But for most of the three days they spent in Plymouth, Evan stood in the drizzle and watched the harbor. No doubt she had walked on the Hoe, possibly where he stood now, marveling at the roiling gray-green ocean and engrossed by the frenzied activity in the harbor.

Things were probably quieter these days—neither Napoleon nor anyone else was likely to invade any time soon. But still it was an exciting and cacophonous place, with ships sailing in and out, cargoes loading and unloading, sailors and soldiers and dockhands lifting, sweating, swearing, and swaggering in all directions. Even on Sunday, the motion barely slowed. Given Deborah’s previous seclusion, the scene must have been awe-inspiring, if not downright frightening.

He thought about the exotic places those vessels might be going and considered the possibilities. He did not think India or the East Indies would be to his taste; dying of yellow fever did not sound adventurous, merely wretched.

He was not daring enough, he decided, to attempt Africa. Although, like most young men of his generation, Napoleon had denied him the Grand Tour, Europe seemed almost too tame, though somewhere off the beaten track, like Norway, or Iceland…  No, too cold. Farther east then, Prague, or Buda, the Black Sea.

Or he could sail west. South America sounded marginally more civilized than Africa, and Canada likewise, though still mighty wild considering it belonged to England.

But probably he would choose a ship bound for Philadelphia or Charleston. Surely America could offer adventures to last him the rest of his life, and if that proved not to be so long, that would be all right too. He could sign over his inheritance to Raymond and never return to England at all. He’d have to spend some time with his family first, endure their bewilderment and tears and recriminations. And he must see Frank Latimer through his wedding because he had promised to do so. And no, he could not leave the country without seeing Deborah again. He would need a fresh memory of her to hold in his mind.

At some indefinite point in these ruminations, Evan decided he must speak to her once more. Rose told him to talk of love. He would do it. And if that didn’t work,
then
he could sail off to the New World. It would be a suitable expression of anguish. Or would it just look like pique?

Whatever Grady might think, Evan was fully aware that time was running short. But for some inscrutable reason, it seemed crucial to follow Deborah’s footsteps before he solicited her again. They left Plymouth on the direct road toward Exeter and pushed the grays hard.

Grady wondered at the sudden rush, but he was relieved to be headed in the right direction, so he made no objection. Mr. Haverfield had stopped talking again, but that was all right too. Grady hummed to himself, took his turn with the reins, and spent some extra time getting Jory and Bess settled in when they finally stopped for the night.

So he was dismayed when they left the main road the next day and headed east, back toward the coast. Grady had seen enough coastal scenery to last him—well, until next winter. And it was raining again.

“I thought we was headed north for sure now, sir.” He sounded petulant, even to his own ears.

“We’ve another couple stops to make, I’m afraid.”

More silence. Clearly the master was not going to volunteer anything else. “D’you mind telling me where?”

Mr. Haverfield took the time to negotiate a sharp turn and then to pass a farm cart before answering. “Dawlish first. And Lydford on the way north.”

Grady grunted. He didn’t know about Dawlish, but he knew Lydford was Mrs. Moore’s home town and figured she must have something to do with Dawlish too. “Damned pilgrimage,” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” It was spoken quite sharply for his good-natured master. Except he wasn’t so good-natured anymore.

“Sorry, sir. I was just sayin’, Lydford ain’t precisely in our way.”

“Nevertheless, that’s where we’re going.” And silence fell again, except this time Grady felt it was directed at him. He ground his teeth and fretted. Might be time to look for a new employer. Some placid country squire, a confirmed bachelor—or at least long married—somewhere down here in the south. But
not
on the coast! Maybe Sir Allan could use a new man.

It was a damn shame. He was not likely to find a job that suited him so well. Mr. Haverfield might get over his megrims sooner rather than later, particularly if he could get the troublesome widow to marry him. But whether she said yea or nay, life with Mr. Haverfield was bound to change.

It could have been a fantasy world. Early morning sunlight flickered through the budding branches outside his window, the new leaves wet from last night’s rain and so vivid, that exuberant shade of green seen only in the springtime. A blackbird sang just out of sight and won a response from somewhere farther away.
Passion in the treetops
. And in the fields and forests and barnyards as well, no doubt. Evan brooded.
Does me no good.

The flies were certainly breeding. He made his third attempt to swat one pesky youngster who was after his breakfast. The whole extended family was much in evidence in the stableyard as he awaited the phaeton. But once the luggage was loaded and they were underway, this annoyance was left behind. Jory and Bess, who had plodded half-heartedly through the previous afternoon’s rain, were in high spirits this morning, tossing their heads and nipping each other fondly. If Evan could not claim such high spirits for himself, he at least felt alive, and that felt pretty damn good.

The rain had stopped them short of their goal the evening before, but an hour’s easy drive along the cliffs brought them into Dawlish. Evan took rooms on the Marine Parade, a few doors away from Dawlish Water and The Strand that ran alongside it, up the hill away from the treacherous coast. The main part of town lay inland with its inns and shops. But when they left Dawlish, they would leave the sea behind, and who knew when he would see it again—unless he sailed for America, in which case he would surely get his fill of it.

Upon arriving in Dawlish, Evan wasted no time in seeking out lodgings.

“Aye, I’ve a suite vacant,” said Mrs. Puddlemire. “I only let by the week, as a normal thing, but being as there’s just three days left in the week and that’s all you’re wanting, I can let you have it at a discount.” She also promised, “a full breakfast between eight and half past. And I c’n do dinner for ye as well, sir, ye just let me know the day afore.”

If Evan had felt Deborah’s presence in Plymouth, how much more so in Dawlish, where one could traverse the whole town in an easy morning’s walk and meet all its inhabitants in the course of a few days’ stay. He strolled out that afternoon and found her everywhere. Every street might have seen her pass. Every shop owner might have sold her bonnets or books, every tea room might have served her. The assembly rooms, the library, and the church had surely held her within their walls. The people he passed might have seen her, met her. Some of the gentlemen might have danced with her at assemblies. Would they remember her? A dark, pretty girl, naïve and serious, graceful and shy?

His vision of her was so real, it took a moment for his brain to register surprise when he saw her, pointing out something in a shop window to her companion. Her height, her figure, the color of her hair, that particular shade of the gown she had
not
worn to the ball on New Year’s Eve…

His heart stopped for a moment, leaving him disoriented. It could not be her, of course.